


Prima donna

by Sonomi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:48:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27922540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonomi/pseuds/Sonomi
Summary: A prima donna will shine on any stage.A silly little present for my beloved Gladia Delmarre
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	Prima donna

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gladia_Delmarre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gladia_Delmarre/gifts).



After fifteen years, the old soup kitchen almost feels like home.

Don't get me wrong: no one likes the idea of spending Christmas Eve in a place like this. You should have seen me the first time I turned up here, furious as a stray cat, exasperated by the broken heating system at home, by the empty fridge and by the immense squalor that remains in a Soho showgirl’s life when the show is over.

I bundled up myself like an octogenarian, hoping not to meet anyone, and I sneaked in here, to keep warm, to eat something that wasn't canned soup - and yeah, to not being alone on a fucking Christmas Eve.

Never in my life I would have thought of being here the year after and the one after that; but what can I say? I was looking for something that felt like home, and I found it.

From what the veterans told me, Mr. Fell has been a volunteer at the Soho soup kitchen for as long as they can remember. Which means quite a bit.

He has certainly been here since I came here; always with the glowing vibes of a child in front of a mountain of gifts and the industriousness of an old housewife. They say he has a bookshop nearby; but I never tried to look for it. Better not to spoil the magic of these evenings with the embarrassment of meeting in the daily dullness.

And if I talk about magic it is not out of turn.

I remember the first time I came here. Almost immediately, the neon lights in the room all went off; we replaced them with dozens of yellow wax candles, which Mr. Fell found providentially stored in his warehouse.

That same evening, a bakery truck that was bringing the desserts to some fancy London restaurant broke down right on the opposite sidewalk; there was no way to get it started again, so they gave the whole load to us. The best tiramisu I have tasted in my life.

Once, while we were sweeping the floor at the end of the night, we found the winning ticket from the neighborhood lottery. Last year, some television cooking show grand finale took place here in the soup kitchen, for charity, and we were served and revered during the whole evening, giggling while the contestants were brutally mistreated by the judges.

If anyone shows surprise at these coincidences, the soup kitchen veterans chuckle: when Mr. Fell is around this is business as usual, they say.

That's why everyone keeps coming back year after year; and that's why now I arrive early, no longer as a guest but as a volunteer for the service and to decorate the room. This year we received a fragrant load of fir branches, the pruning of the botanical garden trees.

Guess who scored them.

But let's get to us, this year’s Christmas Eve. The dinner is almost over; the rattle of cutlery has been replaced by lively chatter and music from our old record player. The trays with the food have been replaced by a huge pot of mulled wine; and even we volunteers are finally sitting with our hearty steaming glass.

I suspect that at any moment now the electric lights will go out and we’ll switch to candlelight; after the first time, it became sort of a tradition.

And then the door opens.

Trust me: after years on a stage, even a third-rate stage, you learn to recognize a prima donna.

And the one who enters in long undulating steps, in an exquisitely cut coat, is a prima donna right to the root of her hair.

Everyone is staring at her, as if the Queen herself had entered the room; but you must understand us. We are the damn soup kitchen. It's Christmas Eve.

And so perhaps, yes, the appearance of Elizabeth II in a charity stunt would have surprised us less than the entrance of this diva in dark glasses, who takes her place at the only empty table at the end of the room.

She crosses her long legs, shakes her flaming hair away from her face, and only now, from the cut of her jaw, from the Adam's apple, I do realize that my prima donna is actually a man.

Undisturbed by the weight of collective attention, she carelessly pulls off her black coat and throws it on the chair next to her; revealing a sheer sleeveless blouse and palazzo pants, rigorously black and rigorously fine-crafted, on what is indisputably a thin, elegant male physique.

At this point the whole room is hypnotized; we all stare at the incongruous spectacle of this defilé figure, who came out of a fashion magazine to sit under the neon light of our decrepit room.

A fashion designer? A rock star?

David Bowie is from London after all.

The prima donna puts her two-hundred-pounds glasses on the bakelite table, and only then does she look around, starting to distractedly take off her tulle gloves.

"Oh, there you are," she exclaims in a tired voice; and perhaps we really shouldn't be surprised that she's talking to Mr. Fell.

Mr. Fell sighs, shaking his head; and then approaches the prima donna with two glasses of wine.

"You know I spend Christmas Eve here, Crowley."

"I know, that's why I've come to save you. Let's go for a drink, shall we?"

"To tell you the truth, I'm having a very pleasant evening." says Mr. Fell pointedly, and he hands one of the glasses to - his friend? Girlfriend? Lover? "Would you stop by to take a cup of mulled wine?"

"Mmmmh." broods the prima donna with a small grimace.

"Go ahead, Mr. Fell." I intrude, because my gall, it seems, knows no boundaries. "I'll take care of the rest of the evening."

Mr. Fell looks at me with a doubtful expression; but the prima donna addresses me with a large, toothy smile. "Good girl." He approves.

"But my dear," Mr. Fell mutters; he's worried, but at the same time, I can see it well, he's very tempted. "What if..."

"Nothing is going to happen, angel, you can bet on it." the prima donna interrupts him while getting up and picking up her coat. "Come on, I have to tell you this..."

 _Angel_ , I think as I watch them walk to the door. Mr. Fell takes his leave with a little embarrassed bow, but I haven't seen him this excited since the accident with the tiramisu truck.

I wonder if I'll have the chance to ask him about the details next year.


End file.
